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^.^For my gorgeous sweetie |
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On Raglan Road on an Autumn Day, |
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I saw her first and knew |
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That her dark hair would weave a snare |
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That I may one day rue. |
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I saw the danger, yet I walked |
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Along the enchanted way |
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And I said let grief be a falling leaf |
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At the dawning of the day. |
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On Grafton Street in November, |
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We tripped lightly along the ledge |
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Of a deep ravine where can be seen |
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The worst of passions pledged. |
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The Queen of Hearts still baking tarts |
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And I not making hay, |
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Well I loved too much and by such and such |
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Is happiness thrown away. |
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I gave her the gifts of the mind. |
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I gave her the secret sign |
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That's known to all the artists who have know |
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The true Gods of Sound and the stone. |
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And word and tint without stint. |
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I gave her reams of poems to say |
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With her own dark hair and her own name there |
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Like the clouds over fields of May. |
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On a quiet street where old ghosts meet, |
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I see her walking now |
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Away from me so hurriedly. My reason must allow, |
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Let I have wooed, not as I should |
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A creature made of clay. |
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When the angel woos the clay, he'll lose |
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His wings at the dawn of the day. |